


s p e a k

by SomeRainMustFall



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Things Happen Bingo, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Blame, Sexual Assault, There's no actual rape but please read the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: In the conference room, waiting on Gil with Dani and JT, Malcolm says, "I have a problem.""Is that news?" JT asks, and Malcolm's stomach starts to hurt, mouth watering as if he's going to be sick.In his shame, words don’t come easy. They seem not to want to come at all.Perhaps it's better for everyone if they don't.×Bad Things Happen Bingo 'non-con touching' (1) and 'attempted rape' (2) squares.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664860
Comments: 62
Kudos: 303





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the heaviest thing I've posted, so please head the tags! There's no comfort until the next chapter....and in between more angst. That being said, also please enjoy :3 Next chapter will be uploaded tomorrow.

Malcolm knows he makes a lot of mistakes.

Sometimes he forgets to take his medicine. Sometimes—okay, more often than not—he forgets to eat something. Sometimes he says the wrong things, upsets people when he didn't mean to.

Sometimes he gets fired from the FBI. Sometimes he visits his father again after ten years, and ruins all the progress he made before.

Bending over to pick up his phone after he drops it at the precinct shouldn't be one, shouldn't change everything.

And yet.

He feels someone brush against his backside just as his fingers close around it, and he tips forward, hitting the floor on one knee and pivoting around on it to stare up at the man.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the man says, but his body language, his expression, says it wasn't an accident. He leers down at Malcolm, like Malcolm isn’t even human, and Malcolm quickly stands up, turns around, and ignores him.

He hates that it’s not the first time, and he hates that it won’t be the last.

Sometimes he likes the attention. Sometimes he feels bad enough he thinks he deserves it. And sometimes he just wants to disappear. 

But he doesn’t think anything of _this_ man, specifically, until the next time Gil calls him in, until he’s washing his hands in the bathroom as he prepares to give a profile and someone enters, stopping beside him.

Malcolm doesn’t look up, lost in his head, and moves to slide past them.

And they move, too.

The man sticks his arm out, palm against the wall, and blocks Malcolm’s way.

“Goddamn,” he says as Malcolm instinctively flinches back, “you’re even prettier up close.”

Malcolm frowns. For some reason, for the briefest of moments, it doesn’t register what’s happening. He thinks, for a second, that it might just be a misunderstanding.

“Excuse me,” he says. He glances down at the name tag. “Officer Foster.”

“Pretty _and_ polite,” Foster murmurs, looking him up and down. “What a catch I’ve reeled in.”

He gets closer, backs Malcolm up against the wall, and Malcolm finally blinks, his heart jumping in his chest.

“You’re preventing me from leaving the public restroom at a precinct,” he says, remaining as steady as he can. “There’s people out there that will come if I shout.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Foster knees him between the legs, and crushes him back with his body as the air is knocked out of his lungs, covering his mouth.

“You can yell as much as you want,” Foster tells him, grinning as Malcolm chokes, as he squirms, unable to catch his breath with shallow sucks through his nose. “You think anyone here’s gonna care what happens to the rich little pussyboy Arroyo dragged in from the rain? Half the place almost shot your ass the last time you were here, is what I heard. So go ahead. Do it.”

Malcolm _can’t_ with the man’s grimy hand over his lips, and he jerks as Foster’s other hand starts wandering, sliding down his chest, his stomach, down towards—

With a stifled gasp, Malcolm drives the palm of his hand up under Foster’s chin as hard as he can, hears the clack of his teeth meeting and the cry of pain as he staggers back and away.

Coughing, Malcolm shoves the already off-balanced man, grabs his shirt and hooks a foot around his ankle, and Foster topples over to hit the ground.

“I’m not a _boy_ ,” Malcolm hisses. “And my name is _Bright._ "

"I'll fuckin'—" Foster starts to get up, to reach for his _baton_ , and Malcolm darts out the door, slams it open and nearly runs straight into Dani. 

"The hell is wrong with you?" she asks, looking behind him, and he deflates, shakes his head, tries to compose himself, hides his shaking hand behind his back.

"Nothing I can't handle," he says. 

She smiles, pats his arm once, and says, "Glad to know you can use the bathroom on your own, Bright," before walking away towards the conference room.

_My own._

He watches Foster exit, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth as he glares at Malcolm before starting down the hall, and only wishes that'd been true.

**x**

For Malcolm’s next two cases, one right after the other, Foster does what he can to make Malcolm miserable whenever he's around.

He slams his shoulder into Malcolm's when Malcolm is holding hot coffee so he spills it over himself. He ogles at Malcolm in the hallways, follows him towards the bathroom when he tries to use it until Malcolm decides that’s not something he can do here anymore, instead walking down the street to a nearby cafe.

Foster even manages to touch him once, cups his hand against Malcolm's ass as he's leaving the break room, and that's when Malcolm tries to say something.

In the conference room, waiting on Gil with Dani and JT, Malcolm says, "I have a problem."

"Is that news?" JT asks, and Malcolm's stomach starts to hurt, mouth watering as if he's going to be sick. His third case and he's already bringing _this_ to the table, hoping people that aren't his friends, that don't even _like_ him, will help him.

In his shame, words don’t come easy. They seem not to want to come at all. 

Perhaps it's better for everyone if they don't.

Still, somehow, he takes a deep breath, and quietly forces out, "Officer Foster,” as he watches their expressions. 

Neutral. They don't know.

Maybe Foster was right. Maybe they wouldn't care, even if they did.

"What?" Dani asks. 

She's looking at him so kindly, so softly. It gives him the boost of confidence he needs.

"He makes me uncomfortable," he finally says. "He—"

"Like _you_ don't make _us_ uncomfortable," JT interrupts with a laugh.

The joke falls flat.

Malcolm falls silent.

Dani smacks JT's shoulder. JT apologizes, sitting a little more slouched. 

"What do you mean?" she asks, surprisingly earnest.

And he smiles, weakly, and simply replies, "Nothing.”

They have a case to focus on, after all, don’t they?

**x**

The fourth case, a week later, he makes another mistake.

He exists, he thinks, is the main problem. That's enough for trouble to keep finding him.

The other is something else he never thought would be wrong.

Walking. 

He’s just _walking._

But he’s walking _alone,_ even in the precinct, down the hall towards the break room, when two hands grab him and yank him to the side, into the custodial closet, slamming him up against the far wall.

Malcolm’s breath leaves him in a hoarse cry for help, and it earns him a blow across the cheek, a kick between his legs. Foster shuts the door, crowding him up into the corner and grabbing his face, digging his nails in. 

“Shut that pretty mouth,” he hisses, forcing their lips to meet. Malcolm struggles, pushing up against him, but Foster has him pinned with weight and muscle, far more than Malcolm. He grunts as Foster bites his lip, and then sucks in a much-needed breath as Foster pulls away and slaps him across the mouth.

"You think you can just keep flauntin’ that tight little ass in my face and get away with it, huh?"

"Stop _—hel—_ "

Foster punches him again, across the jaw, and it flashes Malcolm's vision white. In the moment he's stunned, Foster grabs a washcloth off the shelf, pries Malcolm's mouth open, and shoves it inside.

"You're gonna be a good, quiet little boy," Foster says, pushing against him as he writhes. "That's it. _Squirm_." 

Malcolm reaches up, trying to drag the cloth out as he chokes, and Foster hits him again, _again_ , drives his fist into Malcolm's stomach and then slams his head back against the wall, _hard._

Things go dim. Malcolm suddenly can't remember much of what's going on. He feels his legs give out, but Foster keeps him upright with his weight, hands pinning both of Malcolm's to the wall above his head.

"Fuck," Foster mumbles, and Malcolm blinks hard, feeling Foster rocking against him as his senses return and wishing things had stayed quiet and darkened.

"You're a good boy, aren't you? Just needed someone to control you. That's right…"

Malcolm tries to cry out, but it's far too muffled to be heard. 

"Ain't nobody comin' for you, kid. Goddamn, you're a sight..."

Foster drops his head down, starts kissing and sucking at Malcolm's neck, thrusting against him harder, and Malcolm whines.

"Think of this as your apology for the bruise you gave me," Foster says. "After this, we'll be even. But oh...maybe you're gonna want more."

He leans up, biting Malcolm's ear, and whispers into it, "I feel you gettin' hard for me. But this ain't for you. Maybe next time, when we're somewhere I can fuck you like you deserve to be fucked. Hard and messy and _good._ Make you come for me. Hear the noises you make—see you _—_ you're so—pretty— _fuck!"_

He bites down on Malcolm's shoulder, crushing him with one final push forward as he comes, and Malcolm doesn't make a sound.

"Oh, that's a good boy," Foster murmurs, kissing up his neck to his jaw. "Look at you." He reaches down, rubbing Malcolm through his pants, and still, Malcolm is quiet. 

He can't move. He can't speak. He's not even entirely _here_ anymore, and that's a relief, because it feels less like what just happened really happened at all. 

"Shame we can't do more here," Foster goes on. "Gotta clean up and get back to work. Nothin' you can't miss though. You could stay in here all day, and ain't no one would notice. No one would come lookin'. But me? Well, they all _love_ me. I'm part of the family. This’s been my home for years.”

He leans closer, grabs Malcolm's neck, and says, "Remember that. Not a damn person in this precinct would believe a word you said. Not even Arroyo. Ain't that neat? And I got friends, kid. Friends here, friends at other precincts. Friends that would love to have a bite of you, too. So keep your head down, little boy. Stop walkin' around the place like you own it, or someone's gonna own _you_."

The words register, but only barely. There's a burn in his chest, and he knows he needs to breathe, but he doesn't struggle. 

He doesn't do much of anything at all, really. Even when Foster releases him and steps back, he only slides down to the floor, knees to his chest. He chokes on the cloth, gagging, and Foster reaches down to pull it out of his mouth, grinning as he shoves it down his pants, cleans himself with it, and then tosses it back at Malcolm.

"Glad we could get to know each other better," Foster says. "I'll be seein' you around, pretty boy." 

He leaves, and Malcolm's alone. 

He's alone for a long time. Maybe eternity. He can't tell.

No one comes for him. No one calls for him.

Malcolm realizes Foster was right.

And then he finally, slowly, moves.

He wraps his arms around his legs, brings them even closer to his sore body, lays down on his side, and starts to cry.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an fairly graphic (but as in like, mostly things being said/threatened) attempted rape scene in this chapter, so please be aware!

It's dark outside when Malcolm comes out, tear-stains down his face that he tries to wipe away with his sleeve.

"What the hell, kid," someone laughs as they see him, "were you takin’ a nap in there?"

But they don't ask why. They don't _care._

Malcolm knows only one person does. He doesn't look anywhere but forward, towards his goal.

Gil.

He needs...he needs Gil.

He doesn't knock. He pushes the door open, and Gil startles, then frowns.

Malcolm wonders if it’s because he looks as disgusting as he feels.

"There you are! I've been calling you, I—" He stops, his anger dissipating the moment he really seems to look Malcolm over.

"You're shaking," he says. "What's wrong?"

Shaking. Not just his hand, but his entire body is trembling, ready to collapse in on itself again for protection should something else happen. 

He can’t take anything else happening. He _can’t._

"Bright," Gil says softly. "Have you been crying? What happened?"

Malcolm feels tears in his eyes again, and wills himself not to cry anymore.

But things are happening whether he wants them to or not, lately, and he starts to anyways.

Gil stands, holding his hands out as he approaches like Malcolm is a wild animal. "Kid...kid, hey, talk to me."

Malcolm can't. He can't say a thing. He just cries, and violently flinches back when Gil tries to touch him, and then cries harder. 

"Ssh, kid...it's okay," Gil says. He's startled, because Malcolm has never refused his touch before. He sits on the couch, patting it, and Malcolm slumps down beside him, hugging himself tight.

"Tell me what happened, Bright."

"Sorry—" Malcolm finally chokes out. "Sorry!" 

"What are you sorry for? Is this about...you going to see him? Jesus, kid, I'm so sorry I—"

Malcolm shakes his head. He can't get the words out.

He's not even _sure_ what happened, or how to explain it. How to tell Gil he was beaten, humiliated, forced to stay, helpless, while Foster—

He cringes, shrinks into himself, and feels his face flush hot. And he'd been forced to _react_ , to _feel_ , because one trauma wasn't bad enough; no, he had to be betrayed by his own body, too. 

"Come on, kid. I can't help if I don't know. Did someone say something to you?" 

Malcolm nods.

"Dani? JT? No? One of the others? Malcolm, it's okay. You can tell me."

He can’t. It's not okay and he _can’t._

Gil suddenly sounds angry as he demands, “Who hurt you, Bright?” and Malcolm is terrified. What would happen if he tells the truth? Would Gil go out and arrest the man on the spot, in front of everyone? They would all know it was Malcolm’s fault— _they_ might hurt him, too, Foster had _said_ they would.

“No one!” Malcolm gasps. 

“Bright…”

“He...stared at me. That’s it. That...that’s it...that’s not it, Gil, I…” 

“Who?” Gil reaches up, grasps the back of his neck, and says, “Tell me who, Bright.”

“Foster,” Malcolm says, eyes shutting again as he drops his head forward. “Please, I’m sorry, don’t—just—it’s fine— _I’m_ fine—”

“You’re not fine. What did he do?”

Malcolm can’t tell him. He just can’t. So he shakes his head, and says, “Just stared.”

“You said that wasn’t it."

“Told me he wanted to—to do things,” Malcolm finally admits. It’s not a lie, at least. It’s just not the truth he needs to tell.

Can’t tell. Can’t tell. He can’t.

“Hell...Foster?” Gil mumbles, quiet enough it’s probably supposed to be to himself, and Malcolm freezes. 

There’s _doubt_ in his tone.

Malcolm practically launches himself off the couch, hears the sound of surprise Gil makes, and stumbles back.

“It’s nothing,” he says, wiping his eyes. He should have known better than to speak up, he should have _known—God,_ even Gil thinks he's lying, _even Gil—_ “It’s nothing, Gil, it—nothing happened. I'm—it's nothing!”

"Bright, for God's sake. It’s not nothing." Gil stands up, and Malcolm watches with wide eyes as he opens the door, and calls, " _Foster!"_

"No!" Malcolm cries, hitting the wall, feeling like he's being pinned there all over again. "No, no, no! Gil, don’t!” 

Gil looks confused. He doesn't understand what he's doing is going to make things _worse_. 

"Leave it alone!" he hisses. "I never should have—"

He cuts off in a shaky gasp and holds his breath as Foster approaches Gil, standing in the doorway.

He can't leave—trapped, he's trapped—just like the closet—but Gil wouldn't let him get hurt, right? But then...Gil wouldn't even _believe him._

He feels tears down his face again, and he wants to _die,_ wants to go back in time and never have left his apartment this morning at all.

"What did you say to him?" Gil demands, and Foster stares first at Malcolm, and then at Gil, and Malcolm is too frightened to be relieved that Gil _does_ think it's at least _something._

"What?" Foster asks. "What's going on?" 

"You scared my kid, is what happened, and I'm letting you know _right now_ that's unacceptable. Letting everyone know," he raises his voice, addressing the others, and as he turns, Foster glares sharp at Malcolm, makes him tremble and whimper softly. 

"Malcolm Bright is our _official_ consultant. I won't have him treated _any_ different than you all treat each other! Is that clear?"

He looks back at Foster, and adds, "And I won't have him harassed."

" _Harassed?_ " Foster echoes, somehow sounding absolutely sincere in his confusion. "Oh, hell, I never meant to—no, that was a _joke,_ what I said, I thought—"

"Look at him," Gil snaps. "What did you say to him, huh? You know what? No. I don't want to hear it. Whatever it was, you're getting a write-up for harassment. And you stay away from him, or I'll have you suspended. _Without_ pay."

Foster clenches his fists. His entire body tenses in anger. 

"Of course, Lieutenant," he says, and then looks at Malcolm. 

Malcolm can't meet his eyes, but he's sure there's nothing but fury in them. 

"I'm real sorry, kid. Last thing I wanted to do was make you feel outta place. You're one of us now, ain't ya?"

"Yes, he is," Gil says. "Now get out. Don't talk to him again until you can behave like a cop instead of a bully."

"Yes sir," Foster says, and obeys. Gil shuts the door, and looks at Malcolm.

"Kid...your hand."

Malcolm holds it close to his chest as it shakes. 

He imagines the repercussions. He imagines what Gil would have done if he'd known everything. Fired Foster in front of the entire precinct instead of just embarrassing him? Would Foster have shot him on sight before handing over his gun? Gil doesn't know what he's done.

Gil _did_ believe him, and now Malcolm wishes he hadn't.

"Wh-why?" he manages at last. He feels betrayed for a third time. "Why would you…?"

"Because you're terrified!" Gil says. "Look at you! Kid, I've never seen you look like this before. Trust me. They listen to me. I hold their paycheck, after all. Whatever he said, it won't happen again. And if it does, you come to me, okay? And I'll fire him on the spot. I have zero tolerance for that kind of shit."

Malcolm can't express the fear he feels that instead, Gil's assured it _will_ happen again. He chokes out some form of a thanks, debates telling him what _really_ happened, and then holds it back.

The officers stare at him as he exits. A few of them glare sharp enough it _scares_ Malcolm.

"Tease," one of them mutters as he passes.

"Liar," another says, turning around. "Poor guy's gonna have a permanent mark on his record because you're a fuckin' schizo."

"Funny how hard life fucks the ones that don't deserve it, huh?" a third murmurs, looking at Malcolm just the same as Foster had, and Malcolm walks quicker, sits down at his desk and ducks down in his seat, hiding his face and closing his eyes.

He should have stayed quiet. 

Now none of them will ever like him at all.

**x**

He shakes at his desk, bounces his leg so hard the cup holder of pens rattle, as he waits for a chance to go home. He tells Gil he's still looking over the files, even though the case is closed. He tells Gil he'll go home soon.

He doesn't tell Gil he's afraid to get up, to be jumped outside, to be slammed up against another wall and beaten harder, by Foster _or_ any of the others.

He waits, watches, as Foster glares at him any chance he gets before finally, finally leaving for the night. He watches as the man who'd glared the most threatening at him is gone, too.

And then Malcolm relaxes. He uses the bathroom without fear, makes himself coffee to try and calm down, takes a few ibuprofen for his headache, and waits. 

After an hour without seeing either of them, he breathes even easier. 

He can go home.

God, all he wants to do is go _home_. 

"Hey," Dani says as he's coming out of the break room again, his eyes over her shoulder in the direction of the closet. "I heard about what happened..."

"Wh- _what?_ " He focuses back on her, feeling his face got hot again at the mere possibility of her knowing what occurred just behind her. "What happened?"

Dani frowns, arching an eyebrow. "That Foster said something to you. Made you uncomfortable. That's what you were tryin' to tell us earlier?"

"Oh," Malcolm says, breathing out, and leans against the wall for support. "No. I mean...yes, but...it's fine. It's nothing, really."

"Not nothing." She smiles at him, and God, Malcolm blushes for a far different reason now. She's _unbearably_ beautiful, and to hear that she believes him, that she cares, that she might...be his _friend,_ one day...

He smiles. It feels strange, after everything. "Thank you," he says, and she pats his shoulder, much softer, much less condescending than the last time, grabbing her jacket and heading out the door.

"Look," Gil says as Malcolm finally goes to say goodbye, "I don't...I don't want you to think what happened is your fault, okay? If I hadn't said something, they would have kept teasing you. I know the type. Now they know I won't deal with it. And...Foster transferred here a while back from another precinct. Never was told why. Now I have to wonder if it's for that sort of shit. Have to wonder if he hasn't done it to someone else."

Immediately, Malcolm thinks of Dani. He hadn't seen recognition or fear in her face at his name, so he doesn't _think_ so...but he can't know, not for sure. He never did tell them what was happening. 

_He_ has to wonder if the incident in the closet would have happened if he had just _said_ something. 

"You're gonna be okay?" Gil asks, and Malcolm takes a deep breath, forcing a smile and nodding.

"Yeah. Yes. Of course. I'm always okay. Goodnight, Gil." 

"Night, kid."

He's still cautious as he exits. His heart pounds, his body tensed to attack, to protect, but Foster isn't there. 

He braces himself against the stone wall. He can't continue on like this. He needs to tell Gil what happened, what _really_ happened, and deal with it from there. 

But...perhaps over the phone would be easier. Yes. Not face to face, where his shame could be seen, radiating from his body.

He hails a taxi, gets in, and rests against the window, going over what to say in his head for the drive back.

Gil won't be mad. He can trust Gil. He _does_ trust Gil. They'll figure it out together. He doesn't have to be alone.

He's feeling rather good, unlocking the door to his apartment and dialing Gil's number, when nearby he hears a car door slam.

It doesn't mean anything to him, until suddenly there's a hand over his mouth, and he's being shoved forward, against the door and inside.

"You little _fuck,"_ Foster hisses in his ear, and Malcolm cries out, slamming his hands up and out in an attempt to free himself. 

Foster throws him up against the wall, knocks the phone from his hand, and kicks the door shut.

"You're gonna regret opening that whore mouth," Foster growls, and before Malcolm can say a word, there's a gun at his chest.

"You can't—" he chokes.

"No? Try me, _boy."_

Malcolm stares up at him in terror, and sees nothing but fury in his eyes.

He won't hesitate to shoot Malcolm, kill him right here in his stairwell, and no one would know.

"That's right. I'm not fuckin' around." Foster says, and then pulls the gun back and bashes him across the face with it. 

Malcolm's legs give out, sending him to the ground, and Foster kicks him. Once, twice, _repeatedly,_ until Malcolm's sobbing and heaving and Foster's breathless from exertion.

"Please—" Malcolm gasps. His head is spinning, and he can't see straight. "We can—"

"Shut your mouth! Get up. Get up!" 

When he doesn't, when he _can't_ , Foster grabs him by the hair and starts dragging him upstairs.

"Let's go. Come on, now! Ain't lookin' so tough now, huh? Without Arroyo to protect you, what are you? A little bitch who needs to learn her _place,_ that's what."

He slams Malcolm against his door, gun pressed to his head again. "Get your keys. Get them!"

"Wh—what?" 

"I told you that was my home," Foster growls. "You embarrassed me in mine. Now I'm gonna fuck you in yours. Right in your bed, little boy, so you feel that shame. Ain't that gonna be nice? Then we'll be even. Open the fucking door or I'll shoot you right here!"

Malcolm does, hands shaking, keys rattling, and cries out as Foster hits him over the head again, dragging him towards his bed.

"No—stop! We can—we can talk! I'm sorry I—"

Foster shoves the gun into Malcolm's mouth.

"Say another word, bitch, and I'll fire. Arroyo'll be scrapin' your brains off the fuckin' ceiling. Understand?"

Malcolm whimpers and nods, and Foster pushes it further, until it gags him. 

"Get up! On the bed!"

Malcolm wails, shaking his head, and Foster grabs him by the hair again, lifts him to his feet and throws him onto the mattress.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good," Foster says, fumbling with Malcolm's belt and then pulling it off. He sets his gun down, ripping Malcolm's shirt open and starting on his pants, and Malcolm writhes, kicks out and gets _nowhere_ as Foster yanks them down.

"No! No! _Stop!"_

"Fuck, look at you!" He licks his palm and reaches down, grasping him as he screams in protest. "Oh, just _lo_ _ok_ at you. So goddamn _pretty._ Gonna feel _so_ nice..." 

He leans down, kissing Malcolm hard as he strokes him, and then trails his lips down his chest.

"I'm gonna really take my time with you. Nice secluded room where no one can hear you scream for me? Oh, you're mine for the _night._ " He unzips his pants, straddles Malcolm's chest, and pulls himself out.

"Come on. Get me nice and wet with those pretty lips, baby. It's all the slick you're gettin'." 

Malcolm drives his fists into Foster's chest, makes Foster _laugh,_ and then grits his teeth, turning his head as far as he can to the side. "No! No, no, no!" 

" _Suck it!_ " Foster shouts, and Malcolm screams again as Foster grabs his chin, forcing his head forward again and pressing himself up against Malcolm's tightly closed lips. "Open up, bitch!"

_Please, I can't—someone help me—_

The gun digs into his forehead again. Malcolm isn't entirely sure he doesn't want it to fire.

"If you don't open your _fuckin' mouth,_ I'm gonna—"

He doesn't get to finish. The door hits the wall, and a shout of, "Foster! On the fucking ground! _Now!_ " startles Foster off of him. 

Off. It's the only thing that registers.

Gone. _Gone_. Finally gone. 

Malcolm curls onto his side, and he doesn't know what's happening for a minute or two. There's a lot of loud shouting, of cursing, but the words don't make sense in his ears. 

And then there's a blanket over him, and he can feel himself shivering, and he hears that familiar voice again.

"Malcolm! Kid! Hey, come on. Say something. My God, say something!"

"Gil…" Malcolm croaks. 

"Oh, kid. Oh, hell. Did—did he—"

"No," Malcolm says. He finally blinks, looking up at him through bleary vision and smiling weakly. "I'm ok-kay, I'm…"

Gil has tears down his cheeks, and Malcolm knows he does, too. In the background, he hears handcuffs clicking, Foster swearing, but Gil is the only thing that matters enough to focus on.

"Bright…"

"I'm not," Malcolm whispers. "Gil, I'm—I'm—" 

"You don't have to be," Gil tells him, so softly. "Not right now. Not yet."

Malcolm starts to sob, and shakes his head. 

"What can I do?"

"Please," Malcolm whimpers. "Please...g...get me clothes."

Gil does. With him gone, even for a second, Malcolm finally sees the other officers in the hallway and by the door, he sees _JT_ staring at them with wide eyes, and he cries out, shielding his head.

Gil is back by his side in an instant, laying a sweater and joggers down next to him. "What? What's wrong?"

"Make them go," he whispers. 

"Everyone out! Get that bastard down to the precinct. I'll deal with him _personally._ " 

And then they're alone. Gil is so _careful_ with him, making sure he sees the clothes, making sure he's well enough to put them on, and then turning around so he can dress himself.

"I hurt, Gil..." Malcolm mumbles, hardly even done putting them on before he staggers. "'m done...he hurt me..."

"I know. I heard." Gil looks back at him, offering his arm, and Malcolm grabs onto it to keep from collapsing. "You called me on the phone. Maybe on accident. God, I'm so glad you did."

"I dropped it..." Malcolm says, and gets a little closer. "Gil...Gil... _Gil,_ he tr-tried to...he..." 

"What can I do, kid?" 

"Help me," Malcolm gasps. 

"How?"

"I d-d-don't kn-know," he says, sinking to his knees, and when Gil sits beside him Malcolm finally latches onto him, burying his face into the safety and warmth of Gil's shoulder and sobbing.

"You're safe now," Gil says, hugging him close. "You're safe. I've got you. No one's going to hurt you again, especially not him. I promise."

**x**

The trial is long.

They ask him what happened, as Malcolm stays surprisingly steady up on the stand, focusing only on Gil in the seats, not his attacker glaring at him from the table.

"He tried to rape me," Malcolm replies. "He assaulted me in a closet."

"Assaulted you?" asks Foster's lawyer. "How so?"

Malcolm shuts his eyes. His hand shakes. 

"He gagged me with a cloth," Malcolm says, bile on the back of his tongue. But he's already thrown up all he can the past few days, eaten nothing at all, so he's fairly sure nothing will come of it. "And then..."

He looks at Gil, and Gil nods at him. 

"And then rubbed himself against me until he came," Malcolm breathes out, leaning forward to wrap an arm around his stomach. "And then he tried to rape me, by molesting me, taking himself out, and trying to put it in my mouth. Is that enough?"

"No need for hostility, Mr. Bright. I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm only trying to get the truth."

"The _truth_ is he was caught on top of me! In my house! There's the recording!"

"Of him beating you, Mr. Bright. But attempted rape? Well, we'll have to dig a little deeper with that."

Malcolm chokes. Foster scoffs from his seat. Gil looks at him, raising his chin up, and Malcolm does the same.

He tries to be brave. He tries.

Even through the doubtful looks on the lawyer's face.

Even though every time he closes his eyes, he either sees the trial of his father, or Foster's face above him.

Even when they ask him if he did anything that may have lead Foster on, and he has to tell them he bent over to pick up a fucking cell phone. 

And he clings to Gil's hand while they go over the convictions, feels relief and then pain, and cries against him.

Six months. 

Six months in jail, three years of probation, removal of his badge, and registration as a sex offender.

"This is bullshit," JT hisses in the hallway, grabbing Malcolm's shoulders as he sobs so hard he nearly falls over. "Hey. Listen to me. You didn't lose. They found him guilty."

"Six months," Malcolm whimpers. "Six months!"

"He's not a cop anymore, okay? He—"

"He knows where I live! What if he—"

"Don't think like that," Dani says, stroking a hand through his hair, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Just don't."

"You'll have a restraining order," Gil says, grasping his neck. "He'll be on probation. If you ever see him again, he goes back to prison. Okay?"

"Six _months_ ," Malcolm says again, shaking his head. "What did I do wrong?"

_"Nothing,_ " JT tells him. "The system's fuckin' rigged."

"I promise you, it is," Dani tells him, "It's not you. It's not us. It's them."

JT shakes him gently, gets his attention again. "But we've got your back, okay? You know we do. All of us." 

Malcolm manages a weak smile, nodding. They've proved it time and time again over the past months working together, that they cared for him, that they were sorry, that their words, especially JT's, had never been meant to silence Malcolm's. 

"I trust you," he says, looking between the three of them. "Thank you. Thank you."

He's not sure what's going to happen next, but the fact that he has them, that he has his _friends_ to look out for him now...

It makes him feel, for the first time, like speaking up was worth it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended that almost like I've got plans for a sequel...huh. That's pretty wild. I won't though.
> 
> Haha...unless


End file.
